


Touch

by aohatsu



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bonding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 20:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20730191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: Mr. Stark claps a hand on his shoulder, and the shape of it burns through the material of Peter’s shirt, searing a bright, aching pain right into his skin.





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> I aged Peter up to seventeen, but Peter's imagination is the only sexual thing in here. 
> 
> Takes place during Captain America: Civil War.

Mr. Stark claps a hand on his shoulder, and the shape of it burns through the material of Peter’s shirt, searing a bright, aching pain right into his skin.

It’s ironic, actually. People are usually so _careful _about touching him.

His parents died when he was four, and he’d flinched for months whenever Aunt May or Uncle Ben tried to comfort him by holding him, running their fingers through his hair or tucking him in at night. It’d hurt them, he knows, but they’d understood, and touch had become a rare, unexpected thing as he got older. Uncle Ben would ruffle his hair, sometimes, call him _sport _and ask him if he wanted to toss a baseball around after he’d finished his homework. Aunt May tended to forget how much space she took up, bumping into him and knocking things off walls and counters in equal measure, laughing and cursing as she called for Peter to grab the plates for dinner while she collected whatever mess was on the floor.

But Uncle Ben died, and Aunt May cried too often these days to bother with setting the table very often.

He and Ned had touched once, just to check. They’d simultaneously reached out with a finger, bracing for the impact—and letting out heavy, relieved sighs when the pads of their fingertips connected and nothing happened. They’d been twelve, best friends for a little less than a year, and ever since Ned has bumped into Peter in the halls, knocked their shoulders together or kicked Peter’s shin under the desk to get his attention if he’s ever daydreaming in class and the teacher is noticing. Peter returns the favor, sometimes.

He doesn’t really like it.

He doesn’t exactly mind it, if it’s somebody he trusts, like Ned or Aunt May, but…

He doesn’t like it.

The only other person he can remember touching him before a few months ago is Flash, and that had resulted in a black eye and Aunt May threatening Principal Morita as well as a grieving single parent is able to threaten somebody—which is pretty able, actually. Flash and Peter had _both _ended up with detention for three weeks, and they’d had to write essays about how to “properly handle disagreements without resorting to fighting.”

Ha, because _that _had been fighting.

Of course, ever since the field trip to Oscorp at the beginning of junior year, he’s touched more people than he can count—through heavily padded gloves and multiple layers of sweats and hoodies, but still. There was that lady he’d saved from a burning building who he’d had to literally carry out in his arms, and then that little girl who’d been so happy he’d saved her cat from a tree that she’d tried to hug him, and that guy who’d actually managed to punch him in the face when Peter’d stopped him from stealing a kid’s bike.

But kids at school? They never touched Peter. Nobody touched Peter, not on purpose, nobody but Aunt May, and Ned, rarely as those times were, and now—

Now, apparently, Mr. Stark, who has somehow made it through his entire life—isn’t he forty-seven? That’s crazy—without bonding at first touch, even though all the magazines and vlogs and everybody are always talking about how easy the billionaire is to touch, how quick he is to get the question out of the way—are you compatible with _Tony Stark_? With **_Iron Man_**? Nah, you’re not.

Peter supposes, in that blank sort of way, that forty-seven years of not bonding despite not having any sort of aversion to touch will give you the confidence to touch strangers without worrying about getting tied down. He supposes that at some point Mr. Stark must have decided he was incompatible as a bondmate because why, **_why_**, would he have _ever _touched Peter if he’d thought, even for a moment, that they had a chance to bond?

Judging by the stunned, kind-of-actually-funny open-mouthed and slowly dawning look of horror—mixed with pain, like he’d just been kicked while he was already on the ground—on Mr. Stark’s face, he definitely, _definitely_ wouldn’t have.

It’s so quiet for a minute that Peter thinks he can actually hear a pen dropping in the apartment two floors down.

Maybe.

Then, he opens his mouth.

“That—we—”

“Just give me a second here, kid,” Mr. Stark says, and he covers his face with his hand, dragging it through his hair and closing his eyes, bruised and tired and so, so exhausted that even Peter can see it, though—

Though he hadn’t, actually, a few minutes ago, noticed anything wrong, and all the sudden, now, he can see the pain etched in Mr. Stark’s frame—the way his shoulders are tense, drawn in, the way his eyes are heavy, and his mouth dragging, like managing any sort of smile or quirky grin is just _so much effort_.

Right, because they bonded.

Because Mr. Stark touched him, and even though Peter’s shirt had been in the way, Mr. Stark’s hand had burned right through it. Peter glances at his shoulder, the hole in his shirt wide and charred at the edges, with a funny sort of acrid burning smell slowly filling his room.

His skin is shiny and pink where Mr. Stark had touched him, already healing—and for the barest of seconds, Peter panics, reaching up to pull his shirt away to see the mark better, because what if—he heals so quickly now, and what if—what if the mark _heals_ too well, what if it just _disappears_, no proof he’d bonded at all?

Mr. Stark breathes slowly, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” he mutters, “alright, here’s what we do. You, put on a jacket. Cover it up. I was going to send a driver, but you’ll have to come with me now.”

“Um, I, yeah, but—Aunt May?” Peter stumbles over his words, eyes jumping from Mr. Stark—still so tired, Peter thinks, in a way that must be beyond one or two all-nighters—to his backpack, filled with the homework he still has to do before Monday, to his dresser, which is, distressingly empty of clean clothes, to the hamper, which is even more distressingly, full of dirty ones, and finally back to Mr. Stark and the hand that’s fiddling with his phone, now, the hand that had touched him a minute ago.

Peter swallows, noticing for the first time that Mr. Stark’s palm is a dark, angry red, and looks hot to the touch.

In true, stupid Peter Parker fashion, he doesn’t jump up and start packing dirty jeans and clean boxers and non-embarrassing t-shirts, and he doesn’t pull on a hoodie, or grab his backpack or his web shooters or anything that might actually help the situation. No, no, of course not, no. Peter stands up, and reaches out, and touches Tony Stark’s wrist, turning it gently. He wonders if it hurts. His shoulder doesn’t, not really. It just feels warm.

He glances up, eyes meeting Mr. Stark’s startled ones. Mr. Stark jerks backward, pulling his hand with him, and Peter flinches, looking away. There is, embarrassingly, a STARK EXPO poster from 2010 pinned to the wall, that catches his eye. He quickly looks away.

“I don’t think your aunt is going to be overjoyed by the thought of her nephew getting tied down at—how old are you?—wait, no, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know,” Mr. Stark says, finally answering Peter’s question even though he’s looking at his phone again, rather than Peter. “If we can avoid her finding out for oh, let’s say the next five years or so, that’d be ideal. Let’s go with that.”

“Um.”

“You’re getting the grant, it comes with an internship, there’s a, what are they called, a weekend retreat.” Finally, Mr. Stark looks up, and this time, he looks pinched around the eyes but also like he’s—frustrated. Irritated. Tense, and shaking, somehow, even though he hasn’t so much as twitched as far as Peter can tell. “Seriously, kid, pack your stuff, let’s go. I don’t have all day.”

“Mr. Stark, my aunt’s not going to let me just walk out for the weekend without telling her we bonded. And, won’t I have to stay with you for longer than that? I mean, we took bonding health at school last quarter, and they said the initial bonding period lasts at least a week—”

“Jesus Christ, a week? Fine. I’ll… make it work. Somehow.”

Peter finally gets up and starts throwing clothes into his backpack, just a spare pair of jeans and a black Star Wars shirt—quickly leaving the Ironman and Hulk themed _#sciencebros_ shirt in the hamper before Mr. Stark can see it—not that he’s looking. So it’s actually because Peter already knows how far out of his league Mr. Stark is, he doesn’t need to rub it in.

He grabs a red hoodie off the floor, slipping his web shooters on underneath his long sleeves, and takes a last glance around the room. “Um, okay, I’m ready. But Mr. Stark, I really think—”  
  
“Great! Let’s get out of here,” Mr. Stark says, heading straight for the door. “And remember kid, your weirdly attractive aunt doesn’t need to know about this, or she’ll get to know about _everything_—”  
  
And—yep, panic. That’s what that is. Before Peter can think about what he’s doing, he’s already twisting his wrist, and web shoots across the room, sticking Mr. Stark’s hand to the doorknob. Mr. Stark looks back at him, incredulous.

Peter swallows.

“Don’t tell Aunt May,” he says, voice steady, confident. Or, well, he tries to make it confident.  
  
Mr. Stark’s mouth quirks at the corner, and Peter feels something in his chest unlock for a second, because that—that’s real, that little, tiny, barely-there smile, and it’s the first sign of happiness Mr. Stark has had at all since he touched Peter’s shoulder. Maybe since he got to Peter’s apartment. Maybe since before that, even.

“Looks like we’ve got a deal. Now come on, get me out of this.”

“Oh, right, sorry.”

Peter’s really not sure how Mr. Stark forgot to mention they were going to Germany. Not Stark Tower, or the Avengers Compound, or some secret safe house or underground bunker or anywhere else Peter and Ned have ever theorized the Avengers might operate out of to avoid villains and media alike, but Germany. As in, the country. As in, not America. Not even New York. **Germany**.

He can’t help bouncing in his seat a little as the plane takes off, Mr. Stark sitting across from him with a tablet in front of him instead of his phone this time, and honestly, if Peter wasn’t overwhelmed by the fact that he’s on a plane for the first time, leaving New York for the first time, with Tony Stark, who he is bonded to, well, he’d suddenly totally understand why adults are always complaining about millennials and generation Z kids always having their phones out and their headphones in.

Not that he can talk, exactly, because he’s been texting Ned—as subtly as possible; Ned doesn’t know about Spiderman, or the bond, obviously, but he can totally talk about the “internship” with Tony Stark, right?—ever since he’d realized in the car that Mr. Stark had little to no intention of, like, talking to him.

Apparently, he’s working on something important, and there’s “need to know information” that Peter “doesn’t need to know yet, just, play on your phone or something, kid, Jesus”. Peter maybe also couldn’t resist recording it for posterity when he got on the plane—it’s Tony Stark’s _private plane_, that’s just so cool, he can’t, there _aren’t words_ for how cool it is. Other than one distracted reminder not to post anything about Spiderboy (“Spider-man,” Peter protests yet again), Germany or the bond, Mr. Stark doesn’t seem to mind Peter’s recordings, or the way he can’t keep still for very long.

In fact, by the time they’ve been on the plane for forty minutes and Peter has switched seats eight times and looked out every window to see—okay, mostly just clouds, they don’t really change depending on which window you’re looking out of—Peter’s pretty sure Mr. Stark has completely tuned him out. He tries to settle in and get some homework done—his math worksheet is all the way at the bottom of his backpack, squished beneath his hastily packed jeans—but his eyes keep sliding back over to Mr. Stark.

He’s tapping at his tablet, reading and writing and—drawing? Maybe? Or editing something, probably, unless he’s _designing something_, oh God, so cool, so cool, **_so cool_**—and swearing under his breath intermittently. Eventually, aware he’s been staring for too long, Peter turns back to his homework and attempts to focus.

It’s only in the attempt that he realizes he has the beginnings of a headache.

That happens a lot, actually. His senses are dialed up to eleven these days, and if he’s not careful about it, too much input can make the inside of his head feel like he’s beating on a drum. A really, really big, clanging drum. With, like, an accompanying brass section on particularly bad days.

This headache feels a little different, slow and constant right at his temples, and getting worse as the minutes pass.

He’s about to ask if Tony has any aspirin—maybe if Peter takes, like, ten of them, it’ll help?—when Tony curses loudly, throwing the tablet into the chair across from him, rubbing at his forehead, wincing like he has a migraine as bad as Peter’s, or worse even—

Peter shakes his head, mutters, “Idiot, I’m an idiot,” and puts down his pen, getting up to walk across the plane aisle to where Mr. Stark is sitting.

“Um, Mr. Stark?” Peter says, quietly, and Mr. Stark sits up slowly, letting out a deep sigh.

“Yeah, kid?”

“I think it’s, um, starting? So, we should probably, uh, you know,” and Peter feels like an idiot, stuttering all over the place, so he closes his eyes, breathes, and opens them again, looking into Mr. Stark’s face, who seems resigned, like he knows what Peter’s talking about but doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to deal with it, and that’s—that’s ridiculous, it’s running from it, and okay, Peter’s not anybody’s first choice for a bondmate, he knows that, but it isn’t like they have a choice here. He nods his head, straightens his shoulders, and says, “I’m going to touch you.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.

But he forces himself to sink to the floor of the plane—Mr. Stark’s sitting in one of those single chairs, and Peter’s not going to sit in his lap or anything, so the floor it is—and casually (as casually as possible, which is, not actually casual at all, it feels like his blood is buzzing inside his skin, holy shit) lays a hand on top of Mr. Stark’s knee. Immediately, the headache pounding against his temples recedes, replaced by a whitewash of static and a feeling of warmth that stretches from his fingertips up his arm and down his back and chest, washing over him like he’s sinking into a hot bath after being stuck in the rain.

He can’t quite stop the whimper that slips out, or the solid thunk of sound when his head hits the wall of the plane.

He doesn’t even care.

It feels good.

It feels _amazing_.

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this warm, or safe, or—or he doesn’t know what.

After a while, maybe because he’s so relaxed, his stomach growls—loudly. He flushes, feeling the heat rise to his face as Mr. Stark snorts from above him.

Mr. Stark gets up, dislodging Peter’s hand. The headache doesn’t come back right away or anything, but Peter still feels a little lost without the grounding touch. But then Mr. Stark is holding out a hand, like he wants Peter to grab it. He does, and Mr. Stark hauls him up to his feet. “Come on, there’s a snack bar and a sofa down here. It’ll be better than the floor.”

Right, because Peter can think about food when Tony Stark is _holding his hand_.

Peter has never, ever, held someone’s hand before.

Okay, no, that’s a lie—he probably held his parents hands before they died, and he distinctly remembers holding Uncle Ben’s hand in the police station when he and Aunt May had come to pick him up. But those were vastly different situations to this one. Peter’s never liked touching, never wanted it—he’s never even really dreamed about it, other than, well, those kinds of dreams that you can’t really control when you get to be a certain age and anyway, the point is, he’s never wanted to hold somebody’s hand.

But there’s nothing for it. He thinks if Mr. Stark stops holding his anytime soon, he might actually die. It’ll be the most embarrassing gravestone ever: Here lies Peter, who died of a lack of handholding.

Idly, he remembers the sex tape of Mr. Stark’s that had been a huge scandal back in the nineties (before he’d been born, which is kind of…), the one he’d watched on his phone in the dark with his headphones on, hand slipping beneath the waistband of his pajama bottoms, and—right. Mr. Stark is probably not freaking out about a bit of handholding like Peter is.

Peter wonders if Mr. Stark even cares about all of the touching they’re doing. It’s—it’s just—people don’t touch this much. They just don’t, it’s not polite. Unless they’re bonded.

Which, they are.

Peter flushes pink all over again.

Mr. Stark pulls open the snack bar one-handed (thank God, he isn’t letting go) and starts rummaging through the options. There’s… not much, actually, which Peter finds surprising because Mr. Stark probably has enough money to keep his private plane stocked?

“I don’t usually eat on planes,” Mr. Stark reflects, and then stops, frowning. He turns his head to Peter, who blinks, and asks, “Did you say that out loud?”

“Uh, I didn’t—say anything?”

“Shit,” he says, and it clicks. Mr. Stark answered a question Peter hadn’t actually _asked_.

Shit is right.

“Do you think we—?”

“Telepathy is rare, kid. It’s probably just a quirk. Maybe because we’re touching.”

Right, the bonding effects can be stronger when you’re touching. Still, telepathy is… reading each other’s minds would be… really, really embarrassing. What if Mr. Stark listens in at the wrong moment and finds out Peter was Iron Man for Halloween all the way up until last year? (And, okay, will probably be Iron Man again this year, because—because going as Spiderman would probably be gratuitous.)

Mr. Stark is smiling, all the sudden, mouth twisting at the corners, and Peter jumps.

“Oh my God, no, I didn’t want you to know that!”

“Honestly, if that’s your biggest secret, I don’t think we have much to worry about from your end. It’s pretty cute. Did you buy the costume?”

Peter, despite being embarrassed beyond words, makes a face of affront. “Of course not. I mean, okay, I bought the base parts, but I added lights to the gauntlets and chest-piece arc reactor plus these connecting pieces to make it look more realistic, you know, because the ones they sell aren’t, um.”

Jesus, will he never learn to shut up? At this rate, Mr. Stark is going to want nothing to do with him after the bonding period. He’s such a _nerd_.

“Hey,” Mr. Stark says, and he looks a little more serious. “I didn’t catch all of that—it’s mostly feelings, I think—but whatever you’re thinking, stop it. I like you just fine. And you’re right, the costumes could be better. I didn’t design them, but I’ve seen enough of them over the years.”

Yeah, he’s seen Peter’s, actually, not that he’d know that.

Mr. Stark is looking at him curiously again, so Peter bends down to look inside the miniature fridge they’re still standing next to, and grabs one of those tiny water bottles and a bag of chocolate-covered blueberries and almonds. Maybe when they get to Germany they can get real food, because Peter likes snacks as much as any teenager, but he’d really like a slice of pizza or a bowl of pad thai right now.

“Yeah, we’ll get food. Hey, hand me some of those.”

Mr. Stark nudges Peter as he tugs him down onto the nearby couch, and Peter dutifully holds out the bag for Mr. Stark to take a handful, popping them in his mouth one at a time. He’s closed his eyes, relaxing against the back of the couch like he might fall asleep. Not that the couch is all that comfortable. It definitely looks like it was chosen to fit the aesthetic of a billionaire’s private jet, not for curling up on with a blanket and a book.

“Mm, yeah, feel free to pick the next one then,” Mr. Stark mumbles, eyes still closed.

Peter flexes his fingers, tightening them a little in Mr. Stark’s grip as he watches the man’s breathing slowly even out. He still has blueberries in his other fist, and Peter can see the chocolate start to melt against the heat of his still-red palm. Carefully, Peter reaches over and takes them back. He isn’t sure what to do with them for a second, since he can’t just put them back in the bag and the trash can is too far away to toss them in unless he’s suddenly developed Hawkeye levels of aim, and eating them seems a little—well, intimate, maybe.

Then again, they’re sitting on a couch together, holding hands, and Mr. Stark actually fell asleep, and something in Peter’s gut tells him that that’s, um, a good thing, not just because Mr. Stark clearly needed the rest, but that maybe he feels… safe? with Peter. And he isn’t sure if it’s the bond or common sense, but he doesn’t think that’s normal, for Mr. Stark. It makes him feel warm all over again to think about, and he pops the melted chocolate blueberries in his mouth after all, savoring the sweet taste.

Emboldened, maybe because Mr. Stark is asleep and won’t push Peter away, Peter scoots over just a little closer, just enough that his shoulder is brushing Mr. Stark’s, and his hip is pressed against Mr. Stark’s, and it’s—it’s so good, so easy, and completely unlike any other touch he’s ever endured. It’s ridiculously easy to lean his head back and fall asleep.

Thirty minutes on the ground in Germany and Peter officially has his first bratwurst—and even though it comes with a giant glass of beer, Mr. Stark doesn’t let him drink it—and then a second plate of schnitzel because he’s still hungry and Mr. Stark tells him to keep eating if he wants (he sort of always wants to keep eating since getting his powers, so he doesn’t protest for very long before giving in and eating Mr. Stark’s leftover maultaschen too, and this delicious cake like thing called prinzregententorte and it’s official, forget organic chemistry or mechanical engineering, Peter wants to be a travelling food blogger).

While they’re eating, Peter finally gets the need to know information—partially because Mr. Stark has to tell him something before they go up against superpowered people tomorrow, and partially because Peter has started being able to hear what Mr. Stark isn’t saying out loud, which is both very cool and very alarming. Mr. Stark, admittedly, seems to think it’s more alarming and potentially problematic, and immediately thinks about—robots? It takes Peter a minute to remember Ultron, and, yeah.

But it’s not like Peter can hear actual words, or anything. Mr. Stark was right when he said it was mostly just feelings. Sort of textured, like you could touch them, almost. Peter likes it, actually, and Mr. Stark rolls his eyes, pointing a fork at him, and says, “No digging around.”

“I wouldn’t even know how! Not that I would anyway!” Peter protests immediately, and he must seem sincere enough (which he _is_) because Mr. Stark smiles again, shaking his head.

“Okay, kid, here’s the deal.”

So, as Peter tries to get to sleep in the hotel room that night—alone, in a huge bed, in a huge room, with his brand new suit sitting on the table next to him, in the dark, and everything is so amazing and beyond words and he can’t sleep—he thinks about the fact that apparently Captain America has gone crazy and is refusing to sign some sort of contract promising he won’t blow up buildings and accidentally hurt people anymore. Which, well, that seems like a reasonable request to Peter, honestly, although he has to admit he wouldn’t want to sign it just because, well, he doesn’t want the government to know who he is? But just to, like, protect Ned and Aunt May from bad guys and the media, which he’s smart enough to know would be a problem.

But then, Spiderman stays in Queens, pretty much.

And he hasn’t accidentally blown up a building or anything.

Not that Mr. Stark thinks Steve (because Mr. Stark calls Captain America Steve, what even) would actually hurt anyone, but accountability is how they keep people safe, and Mr. Stark learned that the hard way (this part he didn’t say out loud, but Peter felt it pretty loud and clear nonetheless). But Captain America is smart, will see reason soon enough (and Peter’s not so sure about that, because Mr. Stark isn’t as sure about it as he sounded, to be honest, and he was definitely leaving something out but Peter didn’t know what).

Peter’s job is to keep his distance, web the bad guys—uh, the good guys who are currently sort of bad guys—up and if needed, always go for the legs. Oh, and get Captain America’s shield right off the bat, and do a flip so he looks super cool doing it. Okay, that last bit Peter added himself, apparently to Mr. Stark’s consternation. (He gave Peter this _look_ while he was thinking about how cool the flip would be, like he was regretting his choice to bring Peter to Germany, which is—no. Peter will definitely prove he is good enough to be here. He will impress Mr. Stark. He _will_.)

(Not that, you know, Mr. Stark had a choice after they’d bonded. They were sort of stuck together.)

(Peter really hopes that isn’t the only reason Mr. Stark decided to bring him.)

(He’s resolved not to ask.)

He flips over in the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a frustrated sigh. The sheets are like ridiculously soft, and the mattress is really nice, it’s just so, so, so incredibly _empty_. He needs to sleep if he wants to be in good shape for the fight tomorrow, and he’s starting to think that he’s not going to be able to.

He wonders if Mr. Stark is sleeping, or if he’s still up, working or—something.

No.

Peter’s not going to do it.

It’s one thing to touch himself when he’s unbonded, but now—well, isn’t that like cheating or something? Peter’s pretty sure Mr. Stark probably doesn’t think that way, just based off the, um, evidence that he wasn’t exactly saving himself, and it’s kind of outdated thinking anyway, but.

Oh, God, he’s hard already.

Okay, it’s not like he’s watching porn, he’s just—slipping a hand under the sheets, pressing his palm against his stomach. He swallows, feels his pulse quicken. Even the air in the room seems to get hotter, suddenly humid where it was cool and comfortable before.

He wraps his fingers around his cock. Closes his eyes, breathes through his nose. He’s done this a thousand times, probably. It isn’t any different, except…

Mr. Stark is in the room next to his. There’s just one door between them.

One.

Door.

He’s gasping within a minute, imagining that door opening, Mr. Stark walking through, wearing—wearing that hotel robe hanging from the bathroom door, the complimentary white one that ties at the waist. Except Mr. Stark wouldn’t have tied it, wouldn’t be wearing anything underneath.

His cock would be hard, thick and glistening with pre-come as he walks over to the bed.

“Peter,” he’d say, right in Peter’s ear, climbing in next to him. He’d wrap long, rough fingers around Peter’s—around his cock, rubbing, twisting, pulling. Oh, oh, _fuck_—

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, mouth wide on a silent whimper. He’s leaking all around his hand, and it just takes the final thought of what Mr. Stark must really be doing—sitting on his bed, maybe with a glass of whiskey in his hand, rubbing at the bulge in his trousers, still wrinkled from when they’d fallen asleep together on the plane—

“God,” he stutters, coming between his fingers.

He falls back from where he’d been arching his back, feet braced on the mattress as he'd thrusted into his fist. His skin is damp with sweat, and despite his stamina since being bitten by that spider, he’s breathing as if he’d just run ten miles. He means to get up and take a shower, and to wipe up the mess he’d made of the sheets—he’s not looking forward to explaining that if Mr. Stark sees it or the hotel cleaning staff say something; maybe he can take the sheets and go wash them? Does it cost a quarter to use the machines here?—but somehow, his eyes close, and he’s asleep.

He does manage to do a flip; even steals Cap’s shield. He webs up a guy with a metal arm—very cool—and another guy with a comes-out-of-nowhere robot bird thing—also very cool, if kind of painful when it drops him out a window.

He gets a very, very heavy truck dropped on top of him.

He’s swatted out of the sky by a giant, and lands hard enough that he can’t move when Mr. Stark’s best friend—the War Machine—(_Rhodey Rhodey Rhodey_)—falls out of the sky.

It doesn’t really matter, about the sheets.

Hospitals in Germany are mostly the same as they are in New York, as far as Peter can tell. Long, labyrinthine hallways with vague, generic paintings on the walls. Empty chairs in the waiting rooms, except the chairs with empty, sad people.

Sad, angry, confused, desperate.

Peter holds Mr. Stark’s hand.

It’s pretty much all he can do.

He’s sitting in Mr. Rhodes' hospital room, a little awkward because Mr. Rhodes doesn’t know him or anything, but Mr. Stark went to do something about the fight, and a General Ross, and maybe the guy with the metal arm? He’s not sure, but Mr. Stark asked him to stay, to keep watch over Rhodey, and sure, Peter knows that was a desperate plea for Peter to stay put where he’d be safe, but—well, he could feel the desperation.

(And the guilt. Guilt came off of Mr. Stark like tidal waves in the ocean, and Peter didn’t know how to make it better.)

He’s staying put, even if the headache has come back twice as bad as it had been on the plane before they’d held hands that first time. Mr. Stark can’t have gone that far—it’s only been an hour—but the distance is making him dizzy. Nauseous even, if he stands up to pace the room when he can’t keep still any longer.

There’s a small noise from the bed, just a shuffling of sheets, and Peter’s eyes shoot up toward the man in the bed.

Mr. Rhodes is squinting at him from beneath his oxygen mask.

“Um, hi. Do you—should I get a nurse?”

Mr. Rhodes reaches up with one hand, pushing the oxygen mask off, blinking heavily, slowly.

“Yeah, get the nurse.”

Peter does. There are several who come in, and a doctor too after ten minutes of poking and prodding and the terrifying realization that Mr. Rhodes can’t feel anything below his waist, can’t move, can’t _move_. They all go away after a bit, and Peter comes back out of the corner he’d been sort of definitely hiding in to stay out of the way.

He sits back down, and Mr. Rhodes takes a long, deep, shaking breath. Then, he looks at Peter, and says, “So, who are you? Please don’t tell me you’re a fan, this hospital has to have better security than that.”

“Oh, uh, I mean, I am, of course, you’re like—you’re the War Machine, that’s—you’re really cool, but, um—I’m actually Peter.” Peter winces. He doesn’t know what to say. Mr. Stark didn’t give him permission to say anything, really, but this is Mr. Stark’s best friend, an Avenger, the War Machine, and Peter—Peter feels like he knows him, somehow, even if that’s kind of crazy. “Peter Parker,” he adds, after a second of silence. “Um. Spiderman.”

There’s another beat of silence, and then, “Jesus, you’re the kid with the Star Wars reference? Really old movie my butt, kid, you’re wearing a goddamn Star Wars t-shirt.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, “I was, um,” trying not to sound like a nerd? Right. Boat’s sailed on that one.

“Kid, what are you doing here? Where’s Tony?”

“He had to go talk to somebody. A, uh, General Ross, I think? He told me to watch you until he came back.”

Mr. Rhodes' eyebrow slowly raises, and it’s a more incredulous look than Peter has seen in maybe ever.

“Tony Stark, my Tony, my best friend, Iron Man, overprotective and clingy Tony Stark, stepped out to talk to General-goddamn-Ross, and left you, a twelve-year-old, as my babysitter?”

“I’m seventeen, actually,” Peter says, shrinking in his chair as Mr. Rhodes continues to stare at him, unimpressed and clearly judging. “And I can, um, lift cars and stick to things? So, I’d be pretty good at protecting you if something happened.”

“Yeah, I remember that. Tony make you that suit you were wearing?”

Peter can’t help it; he grins. The suit Mr. Stark gifted him with when they reached the hotel was absolutely perfect. It fit like a glove, had built-in web shooters, filtered the input so that his senses didn’t go haywire and protected him like some sort of super soft stretching kevlar when things like giants knocked him out of the sky—because if he’d been wearing his old suit, well, he’d definitely have more bruises than he does right now—and more than that, it just _looked_ cool.

And Mr. Stark had made it just for him.

Maybe he grins too much or something, because Mr. Rhodes rolls his eyes and says, “Ugh, kid, put your crush away. I’m injured and can’t deal with it right now. On second thought, please tell me he hasn’t slept with you.”

Peter’s face burns, and he stutters, “No! We only met, um, yesterday?”

Mr. Rhodes squints at him again, and it occurs to Peter that Mr. Rhodes is questioning the story. He’s about to say something, when Mr. Rhodes interrupts with, “You say that like it’d stop him. But I believe you. He’s never gone for jailbait. But why, exactly, are you here? It doesn’t make sense. Why’s Tony trust you so much already?”

Oh. Peter’s not sure what to do about the jailbait comment—or the fact that Mr. Stark, um, sleeps with people on the first date (which he knew already, he did) (besides, he won’t _anymore, _they_ bonded_)—but the trust comment is, wow. And he doesn’t think that’s entirely it, to be honest—Mr. Stark really did want Peter to stay here because he wanted Peter to be somewhere safe and secluded, somewhere he couldn't get hurt. Peter had felt that much when Mr. Stark had been telling to stay in Mr. Rhodes' room, but—there is trust there, isn’t there? Because Mr. Rhodes is his best friend, and he's hurt, and Mr. Stark trusts Peter to stay here with him.

Peter smiles.

“You’ll have to ask him when he gets back,” he says, and then, “Want to know what happened after you fell?”

Mr. Rhodes starts, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that Peter might know anything. But he nods, says, “Yeah, hit me with it, kid,” and Peter tells him everything he knows.

Mr. Stark gets back a minute or two after the conversation has gone sideways and they’ve gotten into an argument (“That’s not even how the force **works**!”) with Mr. Rhodes about the new Star Wars movies. He turns mid-sentence to see Mr. Stark leaning against the doorway, exhaustion radiating off of every inch of his frame even as smiles at Peter—just a tiny, little one, relief and sorrow and affection all mixed in.

Peter reaches out with a hand, and Mr. Stark steps into the room, bypassing Peter’s hand to touch the back of his neck instead, digging his fingers into his hair. Peter sinks into the feeling, even knowing that his hair is curling at the ends, sweat-slick and gross from the battle since he hasn’t had the chance for a shower yet. Mr. Stark’s touch easily pulls a much-too-loud, much-too-revealing groan of appreciation from Peter’s throat. If Peter could bring himself to care about anything but the way Mr. Stark feels against him, he might have been able to stop himself from twisting his torso around and dropping his head forward, pressing his face against Mr. Stark’s belly. He breathes in his scent, the way his cologne is beginning to fade, the bitter dampness of his sweat and the lingering scent of the Iron Man suit, all sharp metal. There’s a tang of blood and hurt there too, from the cut and bruise on his face, from the arm he’s holding too carefully at his side.

Almost as a background note he hears Mr. Rhodes say, “Holy shit,” but Mr. Stark is running his fingers through Peter’s hair now, and he can’t focus on anything else but that soft, gentle tugging.

They go to Siberia.

They almost don’t. Mr. Stark can’t go without Peter, and he doesn’t want to take Peter with him.

Peter promises he can help. He won’t be in the way.

He can _help_.

They shouldn’t have gone.

Peter wonders if Mr. Stark is too angry to cry, or too numb.

He climbs into bed with him at the hospital.

It doesn’t really matter.

Mr. Stark doesn’t cry, but it takes him a long time to stop bleeding.

He calls Aunt May. He can’t avoid it; he’s already put her off with too many texts saying he’s busy, he’s learning so much, he’s having such a great time at the internship retreat, it’s so cool. She wants to see him, talk to him. He winces when the phone connects and she gasps, says, “Peter Benjamin Parker! What happened to your face?”

“Uh, so I maybe got into a fight?”

He definitely got into a fight.

“With who? I need a name. I’m calling Stark, this is ridiculous—”

“Mr. Stark was there! He, um, he stopped it, actually.” He bites his lip, his shoulders starting to shake. He feels the tears start, and it’s so stupid, why is he crying? “He, um, he got hurt too. Because of me. Because he was protecting me.”

He got the edge of a shield in the heart of the suit, the thing that just a year ago was the only thing keeping him alive. He’d been protecting Peter, and he’d nearly been killed because of it.

“Oh, baby. What happened?”

He wants to tell her. Not everything—but some of it. He wants to so bad it aches.

“Just a fight. The other guy—um, Steve, he—there was a fight, and I should have stayed out of it, but I couldn’t, I—Mr. Stark was—”

Hurt.

He hurt _so much_.

“Baby, it’s okay. I promise. Everything’ll be fine. You come home now, okay? I don’t care if the retreat isn’t over with yet, you come home. I don’t want you getting mixed up in all that drama with the Avengers; you know they destroyed an airport in Europe a few days ago? I don’t know how Stark is managing that and an internship retreat at the same time, but you’re done. Come home. Or I’ll come get you.”

“Aunt May,” Peter breaks, and he’s crying, sobbing really, and he wishes she was here.

Of course, he can’t go home yet. Despite everything that’s happened, it’s barely been four days. The bond won’t allow for Peter and Mr. Stark to separate very far yet. He doesn’t want to anyway. It takes an hour to convince Aunt May to let him finish the internship retreat, and even then he only manages after promising to call her every day.

He spends two days sitting with Mr. Stark and Mr. Rhodes in the hospital—because Mr. Stark got his own bed after Siberia, though Peter healed quickly enough to escape it—watching Star Wars and talking about anything and everything that had nothing to do with Siberia, Steve Rogers or the Avengers. He finds out that Mr. Stark’s favorite food is blueberries, but really, any sort of berry or nuts and he’ll eat them by the bag. Mr. Rhodes pretends to be a vegetable guy, but Mr. Stark laughs so hard at Mr. Rhodes' denial of a sweet tooth that he actually pulls a stitch, and Mr. Rhodes admits—grudgingly—that he enjoys chocolate as much as anyone.

Peter confesses to eating anything, and everything, and enjoying pretty much all of it, and demonstrates by eating the hospital food Mr. Stark refuses to touch.

On the sixth day, Peter is yawning after an impromptu nap in Mr. Stark’s hospital bed when Mr. Stark says, “Hey, kid.”

“Hm?”

“You should call me Tony.”

Peter kisses him.

Tony kisses him back, gentle and soft, refusing to deepen it even when Peter tries. Instead, he curls a hand into Peter’s hair, and his breath is warm on Peter’s neck when he tugs him into an embrace, just this side of too tight, too desperate, too scared.

Peter holds him back just as tight.

After Tony and Mr. Rhodes are released from the hospital, they go home. Tony takes Mr. Rhodes to the Avengers Compound first, where Vision meets them. Peter spends too much time geeking out over Vision, probably—not that he seems to mind, and willingly phases through objects (including Peter) at Peter’s request for something like ten minutes before asking if Peter would like to help him prepare dinner. Peter helps—the kitchen is a bit of a disaster afterward, and the food is questionable, and Tony takes one look at them and tells F.R.I.D.A.Y. to order pizza instead, but he takes a picture of himself covered in flour and some sort of mysterious purple sauce (so he doesn’t really blame Tony for ordering pizza) with Vision and Tony and Mr. Rhodes, and it’s—it’s pretty nice, actually.

That night, Tony touches the mark on his shoulder again. It’s still pink, and Peter thinks it’ll stay that way. Most of his bruises and scrapes from the fight at the airport are gone already, but the mark is still there, the way a mark is supposed to be. A proof of bonding.

Tony’s is still more red than pink. Peter traces the mark with his fingers, and Tony shivers a little but promises it doesn’t hurt when Peter asks. Peter is almost sure he’s telling the truth. Almost.

Peter tries to stay awake, but falls asleep with his head leaning against Tony’s lap while Tony sits up in the dark, the light from his tablet glowing as he works on a prototype design for a walking prosthetic for Mr. Rhodes.

Tony drops him off the next morning, and Peter gets to keep the suit.

When Tony opens the door for him, Peter almost can’t bring himself to let go. He presses his nose to Tony’s neck, muttering, “I don’t want you to go,” and Tony squeezes him back, running a gentle hand up and down his spine.

“I’ll call you. And, hey, if you—if you want to tell your aunt—”

“I really, really do.”

Tony winces, says, “Yeah, I know. God, she’ll kill me.”

“I don’t think she’ll be very mad, actually,” Peter says, but Tony must be able to feel the uncertainty in it, because he looks at Peter doubtfully.

Peter laughs. “Really, I, um. I told her about this fight I got into during the internship. And that you, you know, saved me.” He looks at Tony, almost shy—mostly anxious. They haven’t talked about Siberia. “She likes you. She’ll just, um, be mad that we didn’t tell her right away.”

“That’d be my fault.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, because it’s true. “You panicked.”

“To be fair, you’re seventeen. I’d be more concerned if I didn’t panic.”

“We _bonded_.”

“I’m forty-seven. The internet will implode.”

“Well, we don’t have to tell the internet. Just Aunt May.”

“I’ll have to tell Pepper. Rhodey already figured it out.” He glances at the man driving the car—now outside, grabbing Peter’s bags from the trunk—and adds, “Happy’s probably seventy percent of the way there too.”

“I’d like to tell my friend Ned? But he can keep a secret. Um. Probably.”

“You sound so confident.”

“It’ll be fine.” Peter is pretty sure. If he tells him on a Friday, it’ll give him the weekend to freak out in private, and by Monday— It’ll be fine. Ned deserves to know.

Happy raps his knuckles against the window, and Tony yells out what floor Peter lives on—Peter yells that it’s fine, he’ll take his own stuff up. Happy gets back in the car, grumpy. Peter looks back at Tony, who just shakes his head. Gently, he cups Peter’s face and tugs him forward until Peter is sinking into a kiss.

When Tony lets him go, Peter’s dazed and his lips are tingling.

That was the second one. The second time they kissed.

But it was the first time _Tony_ kissed him.

“Go inside, Peter. I’ll call you.”

It’s funny, isn’t it? That he never used to really like being touched.

He watches Tony’s car leave, his heart doing some sort of crazy dance routine in his chest. He grabs his backpack off the ground in one hand, and the case with his new Spiderman suit in the other, before he gives in and does a happy little twirl on the pavement in front of his apartment complex.

So, so cool.


End file.
